Perspective
by SurelyForth
Summary: Some people just can't catch a break, even if the only break they want is death. One-shot, Brand Cousland comes to terms with duty in the face of survival. Rated T for graphic violent imagery.


A brief episode I wrote months ago; Brand Cousland after Ostagar, contending with surviving _again _when she probably shouldn't have. May be expanded into a full-length story at some point in the future.

Rated T for nightmare violence. That darkspawn blood will mess a person up, no?

As always, all the good bits belong to the awesome BioWare, the other stuff is mine.

* * *

The sky over Castle Cousland was violent green and churning.

Brand stood naked, shivering in the main hall. There was no reason why she could see any sky, especially one so alien. She had run to the hall for safety; Ser Gilmore should be here to help her fight back the monsters that tried to steal her in her sleep. Ser Gilmore had _always_ been here to help her. Where _was_ that man? And where was the blasted ceiling?

A wind swept through then and it brought with it the foul reek of decaying flesh, dirt and excrement. This was no light breeze, it had a physical presence that coated her and crawled against her skin to fill her nose and her mouth with its taint. A panic seized her as she realized that it had even gotten into her blood. She could feel it moving through her like a thick, corrosive oil.

With a sob, she began to tear at her chest. Anything to stop her heart from beating, anything to keep this disease from spreading further, from changing her into whatever sort of monster could survive with such poison pumping through their veins.

To her mounting horror, her fingers slid harmlessly across her breast as if she was made of glass and not flesh at all. Frantic, she searched for a weapon- anything that could end this terrible transformation. There was a ceremonial sword on the mantle; it had belonged to her great-grandfather. She stumbled towards it, barely able to maintain her balance as her muscles seized and protested every step. In one last, gasping, effort she was able to pull the blade from its stand and, without pausing to consider the consequences, she angled it towards her and thrust against her sternum with all the strength she possessed, howling as it pierced her skin and sliced through bone and muscle. Despite the pain, Brand pressed the hilt as closely as she could, clutching it like a lover against her bosom and praying that it would be enough to kill her, at long last, as she collapsed to the floor.

Blood, black and unnaturally viscous, poured out of the hole in her chest. It flowed over her shaking hands until she could no longer hold the sword, it streamed down her arms and her stomach, pooling at her knees. Despite the wound, despite the fact that she was now covered in more blood than any normal human could possibly contain, she remained conscious. Alive. Another sob racked her broken body and she could feel the blade still inside her move with the effort, catching against her spine and shooting spikes of agony down her legs.

Frustration motivated her then, and she willed herself to stand, clinging to the stone mantle for support. There was not one inch of her that did not hurt, did not burn or sting or ache and she closed her eyes tight in a childish effort to shut out the pain. When they opened again, the main hall at Castle Cousland was gone, replaced by a...cavern? It was darker here, the stone of the hearth now uneven ground, the walls covered in unfamiliar carvings. Still, there was no ceiling, only the perpetually roiling sky and that damned, persistent stench.

Despite the effort it took, Brand remained on her feet. The sword had gone clean through her back and it was nearly impossible to stay upright, much less breath without screaming, but she somehow managed to find a balance and keep it.

Eons may have passed; awareness was torture and her mind was choosing to shut down rather than cope. The wind continued to blow, the sky to churn; she focused only on the standing and the fact that something was not allowing her to die.

It was beyond forever when the dragon appeared. It seemed to rise from the ground, a glittering violet beast that vibrated with power. Despite its immense size- talons that were nearly as large as she, and a yawning maw of treacherously sharp teeth, Brand was not afraid. Something this large could only kill her- and quickly, too. As the beast approached her with cautious steps that shook ground and sky, Brand felt almost...content. Death would be a relief after what felt like an eternity of waiting around with a sword through her heart.

The dragon stopped short about ten feet away and turned its head sharply to the left. At this distance, Brand could see that the creature's eye was larger than her head, a black-purple orb aglow with malevolence. As it lowered its snout to sniff the ground, Brand caught her reflection and gasped . It was not the sight of her, disfigured, that was so shocking but rather what she saw beyond that. It...looked like an army. An army of monsters- monsters with nightmarish, rictus smiles that wielded dangerous, primitive weapons designed to maim rather than kill.

Were those things standing behind her? She shut her eyes tight and listened as hard as she could. That was when she _felt_ them and knew with terrible certainty.

Darkspawn.

It impaled her as had the blade buried in her chest, that word. Behind her eyelids she saw the dance of Warden and beast, saw her own hands holding her own weapons- arcing and stabbing and spilling black blood that burned on and inside her.

_Darkspawn._

There would be thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, and they would approach like a tidal wave and break again, and again, and _again_. They would claw at her, pick at her, slash at her…or worse. And once she was dead they would rage on, destroying everything they touched until the entire world looked like them and smelled like them.

Between the unseen horde and the slowly advancing dragon, Brand was trapped. Soon she would be taken, either to death or something worse.

_This can't be it, can it?_ Her exhausted mind struggled; moments ago she had wanted nothing more than easy death. But there was something in her- somehow blood still flowed through her veins and her bisected heart still beat a fierce rhythm against her ruined chest. Even as she fought a growing swell of dread she thought of a father's dying words to his beloved daughter: "Our family...always does their duty first."

_Duty._ Brand grabbed the hilt of the sword and pulled for everything she was worth. She would not let these creatures take her without a fight. Even if she only slew a handful, that would be a handful less that could spread their foulness. It was her duty as a Grey Warden.

Screaming, she raised the blade, black with her own transformed blood, and turned against the multitudes, slashing at them as they overtook her, not caring how they maimed her but only that her weapon found their throats. It was not long before she was caught beneath the bulk of them, pinned by a creature that might have once been a human. Its flesh was milky and blurred; its eyes flat gold. It held her by the shoulders, breath hot on her cheek as it stared and stared and...

With a convulsive start, Brand sat up, pushing at the beast. It yelped in surprise, an unexpectedly feminine sound for such a being. The space around her had changed again. No longer was she submerged under a sea of darkspawn, but rather in a bed. She breathed hard and touched her bare chest. It was whole. She moved her hands down her stomach and was deeply relieved to discover that she was slick with sweat but not blood. Her vision remained fuzzy, the light in this place was simultaneously too bright and too dim. It smelled different, too, like herbs, fur and old parchment.

It took a few moments but familiar shapes began to emerge from the fog. A fireplace, a stack of books, a young woman with ebony hair and revealing robes. As she swam into focus, Brand could detect a bemused and slightly irritated expression on a face that was arrestingly beautiful and achingly familiar.

"Ah," the woman spoke, her voice low "your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased."

Brand struggled to get her feet over the edge of the bed, her head spinning as she tried valiantly to place this stranger.

"Um, yes," Talking was difficult, her throat dry from disuse. "Where exactly _am _I?"

Inky black eyebrows shot up in amusement. "Back in the Wilds, of course. _I_ am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten, and I have just bandaged your wounds. You are welcome, by the way. How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother's rescue?"

Morrigan...rescue. Brand closed her eyes and willed herself to focus. Morrigan. The name shook something loose, and an avalanche of memories overwhelmed her. Arriving at Ostagar, the Joining, the King, the Tower...Brand gasped.

"I..I remember being overwhelmed by darkspawn. They...must have followed us." Her stomach churned at this, it took her dangerously close to the nightmare she had just left.

"Mother managed to save you and your friend, though 'twas a close call. What is important is that you both live. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend... " Morrigan paused and narrowed her eyes, "...he is not taking it well."

Brand could only stare, the words that the woman had just spoken were in the common tongue, but...they could not possibly be true. Could they? She had been at the meeting between King Cailan and Loghain; she had seen their brief power struggle. Had Loghain betrayed the King over a petty argument? And what of Duncan, and the other Wardens? They must be dead, too. Her breath caught as Morrigan's last remark sank in.

"My friend? You mean...Alistair?" Brand struggled to put a face to the name that had come, unbidden, to mind.

Morrigan shrugged with annoyance, "The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you before, yes. He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke."

Alistair...Brand mentally pressed and there he was, his face drawn with concern as she came out of another nightmare-plagued slumber. He had been with her in the Wilds when they first encountered Morrigan, he had watched her after the Joining ritual knocked her unconscious, and he had fought beside her through the Tower of Ishal. It was a small relief to know that he yet lived, even if the rest of the news was so relentlessly grim. Brand wanted to learn more about the...non-survivors, but decided that there were more immediate concerns.

"Were my injuries severe?" She did not care for the small hitch in her voice when she asked this.

"Yes." The witch's response was blunt, "But I expect you shall be fine. The darkspawn did nothing Mother could not heal."

"Well, that's good. I guess." There was no strength behind these words. Something was starting to bother her, a sense of unease that she could not place. "I don't mean to sound skeptical but...why did your mother save us?"

Morrigan seemed briefly taken aback but recovered quickly. "I wonder at that myself, but she tells me nothing. Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach. You were in that tower, after all. I would have rescued your king. A king would be worth a much higher ransom than you."

Brand let out a short, sardonic laugh at this and smirked. The witch had no idea. "Much, _much_ higher."

"What a sensible attitude. Mother is seldom sensible, however. Therefore, we are stuck with you." The way she said it, it did not sound entirely like an insult. "'Tis time you speak with Mother then be on your way."

"Wait, I have one more question. My Fergus..." Brand paused to collect her thoughts, "I mean, my brother Fergus. He was scouting in the Wilds before the battle. Do you happen to know if there are any survivors besides us?"

"Only stragglers that are long gone. You would not want to see what is happening in that valley now." This was a warning. No doubt the woman would spill details if asked, but Brand was not about to delve into that. Instead, she allowed herself a tiny spark of hope. Maybe Fergus was with the groups of stragglers, maybe he had gotten away unharmed and she would run into him on the road and...what? Would she hug him, congratulate him on escaping the darkspawn, and then tell him his wife and child were dead along with their parents and everyone they knew? Her pessimism extinguished the spark, and she sagged a bit in its absence. If she dwelled too long, tears would come. It would just be best to move on.

"I want to thank you. Thank you for helping me, Morrigan."

"I... you are welcome," Surprise showed itself plainly on the witch's beautiful face as she demurred. "Mother did most of the work. I am no healer."

Brand blinked hard, guilty that her gratitude was not entirely genuine. Truth was, she felt a bit strange about the whole situation. Every new piece of information fit uncomfortably with the rest and it was all starting to give her a headache. More of a headache. Maybe she would feel better once she was dressed and had gotten some fresh air. "I will go then, as soon as I am decent."

Morrigan nodded, "You will find your belongings in the trunk at the foot of your bed. Then you shall leave and...I will stay and make something to eat." With that, she turned on her heel and stepped out, leaving Brand alone.

It would take Brand a while to get her armor on. She had hid it well by pressing them against her stomach, but her hands had been violently shaking since she had gained consciousness. Perhaps it was residual from the nightmare; perhaps it was actual fear, or physical weakness. With a frustrated sigh, she threw back the blankets and opened the small chest that Morrigan had indicated. Her things were, indeed, neatly piled within. Pulling out the padded undershirt and velvet lined breeches she wore under her scale, Brand noticed they had been washed recently. She examined the shirt and saw at least four newly mended holes, each one precisely stitched with black thread. Had Morrigan or her mother done this for her? She should ask...or should she? Would the dark-haired young woman appreciate the notice or find it overly precious? Why was she even debating the etiquette of such a situation? Some of the habits of gentile life would die hard in her.

As predicted, Brand struggled with the various buckles on her breastplate and leg guards. No matter how hard she tried, her hands trembled uncontrollably. After her fifth attempt to tighten the strap on her left boot, she let out a scream of frustration that was wildly out of proportion to the annoyance.

It hit her then, hard and unexpected- the _thing_ that had been weighing on her since Morrigan had told her what happened the night of the battle.

_Those he abandoned were massacred._ It had a certain familiar ring, did it not? Hanging her head in silent shame, Brand could feel the bite of oncoming tears. How many times would this happen? How many times would she walk away from carnage, saved by happenstance and dumb luck while other people, _better people_, were left to suffer and die? She imagined them there now- Mother, Father, Oriana holding a broken Oren. King Cailan and Duncan both caked in black blood and even Daveth, his eyes still blank and white from the Joining. What would they think if they could see her sweating in that miserable little hut in the Wilds, unable to even master the simple task of putting on a damned boot?

"I should have died." It came out and it was the truest thing she had said her entire life.

"I should have died with my parents, I should have died with Jory and Daveth, and I should have died at Ostagar." Every word grew louder as her heartache turned to anger. "Why in the Maker's name am I not dead?"

The outburst was absorbed by the warm, incense-scented air of the hut and, when it failed to respond, she felt her rage, sorrow and self-pity drain out until nothing but numbed exhaustion remained. It did not matter why she kept living while those around her met grisly ends, only that every one of them would need to be avenged for their wrongful deaths. Howe must be brought to justice; Loghain must be brought to justice. The darkspawn must be...dealt with.

"No pressure, right?" Brand pushed the heels of her now steady hands against her eyes and spent a few minutes just inhaling and exhaling, slowly counting to five with each breath. When she surfaced from her brief meditation, she was somewhere beyond composure. No regret gnawed at her brain, no self-doubt churned her stomach. Instead she felt only the vaguest twinge of melancholy and a pang of hunger.

She stood to gather her belongings, securing her sword and family shield to her back and sheathing a dagger at her left hip where it would be easily accessible. Unsteadily, she turned to face the plain wooden door out of the hut. Beyond that door was a vast unknown. And darkspawn. Brand thought of her dream, of the single-minded horde and the yawning terror she had felt in their presence. That was another emotion that would need to be conquered.

"No need to beat the world in one day, Brandelyn." She sounded like Nan. She pushed open the door and stepped out into a gloomy dusk to face Morrigan's mother. Whatever came next would _have_ to be better than facing a dragon with a self-inflicted sword through the heart.

She hoped.


End file.
